


As Caribou Do

by jerseydevious



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Major Character Injury, merry christmas audrey!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: Alfred's there for Bruce.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth
Comments: 46
Kudos: 281





	As Caribou Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).



> Words. Cannot. Describe. The pain. I had writing this fic. This is Audrey's Christmas present, and I'm so mad about it, because this fic did NOT cooperate! But it's here, fucking finally. 
> 
> Yes, her present is an amputation joke.

As often as Bruce and Alfred had fought over the years, there wasn’t a fight when Bruce had left him for the first time—freshly eighteen, a beanpole of a boy, short-cropped hair accentuating the sharpening angles of his face as the puppy fat melted away, revealing a bone structure that could have only come from Thomas Wayne. Eighteen, and cracks splitting through him, stress fractures. There wasn’t a fight, because Bruce hadn’t given him the option of one. He was there and then the next day he wasn’t, a note left on the kitchen island, _ I have to get out of here. Love, B,  _ yellow sunlight slanting through the window, the shiver of the paper as it shook in his hands. Alfred kept that note through the years, swept over the fading ink with a careless thumb until the paper was soft and worn.

The lack of courtesy, Alfred could forgive, because a lack of courtesy was intrinsic to Bruce’s nature; he was at times deeply thoughtful, and at other times devastatingly inconsiderate when it best suited him. Alfred had tried to teach it out of him, but if there was one trait of Bruce’s that eclipsed all others, it was his stubbornness. The lack of courtesy Alfred could forgive, because he had forgiven so many of Bruce’s missteps in the past, but it was the fact that Bruce had signed it  _ Love, B _ that boiled Alfred’s blood for so long—Alfred wanted to grab him by the shoulders and snarl,  _ is this love to you, is taking off without notice, without discussion, is that love to you? Is it love that you left me with no idea where you were, is it love that you left me with no way to contact you, to be assured of your safety? Is it love to blow a hole into a person’s chest and then walk away? Is it love to love someone and then leave them? _

He never did say any of that, not only because it would be uncouth, out of place, but because the next time he would see Bruce, it would be in a hospital six months later. Still eighteen, but much thinner than the last time Alfred had seen him, hair longer, hiding the way the skin of his forehead cleaved so close to the skull—eighteen, and the stress fractures had widened in him to deep ravines. Alfred sat in a hospital chair beside him and held his hand and didn’t let go until Bruce wrote another note that read,  _ I’m going to be in France, _ with the  _ Love, B _ missing from the bottom.  _ Is it love to love someone and then leave them, _ succinctly answered with a quiet  _ no.  _

Bruce didn’t come back until March, the year after—the most contact they’d had was a monthly phone call, and Alfred saved every cordial emotion he had towards Bruce for those days, because he was loathe to ruin the scant time he had with the boy. When Bruce returned, he was an inch taller, and beginning to fill out, become less of the wispy child Alfred had known him to be. He was becoming a man. He was becoming like catching smoke. 

The first thing out of Alfred’s mouth was, “If you ever leave me like that again—if you ever leave me with no way to contact you directly, sir, with no knowledge of where you are, do not come back. I will not be here.”

A lie, of course, but Bruce had flinched. A lie, of course—there was no other place for Alfred to be. There was no other place he wanted to be. But Bruce had flinched, and he said nothing until the end of the week, when he said, “I’ll be in Kamakura. I’ll call you, and tell you—exactly where.” 

It was in the balance. It was in the push and pull; Bruce pushed, and Alfred pulled him back. It was in where they ended up after the force was exerted and they were exhausted; they gave in and settled there and carved a new normal out of it. Bruce returned from his adventures for good and Alfred learned how to live around this boy re-made into a man, and Bruce learned how to live around a city that had changed without him and no longer needed something in his shape. He changed his shape, became a boy re-made into a man and a man re-made into a bat, and Alfred learned to live around that, too. 

The biggest change was not Batman. Batman was a change Alfred learned quickly to welcome; Bruce's aimless drive and passion that had been burning him alive cooled into a sharpened blade, it became something manageable, something tempered, something focused. The biggest change happened two years later, when Bruce came home at midnight with Commissioner Jim Gordon on his heels and a child in his arms, all three of them looking haunted _ —this is Dick Grayson, and he’s had a bad night, _ Bruce had said. Alfred would never forget those words, nor the way he said them, with a soft intensity and his grip on the child tightening. The child hadn’t looked at Alfred. The child’s gaze had been glassy, unfocused. He’d been shaking in Bruce’s arms.  _ He’s going to be staying with us for a while _ turned into  _ just another week _ turned into Robin, and Robin stayed to roost.

Bruce’s ability as a father was not something Alfred had foreseen—it seemed to come from a part of him buried deep, a weakness and gentleness for children he had never shown before through all the time Alfred had raised him. The biggest change wasn’t just simply Dick’s presence, which took a good deal of adjustment in and of itself, it was the knowledge that there were parts of Bruce closed even to Alfred; the wonder, at watching Bruce transform yet again, re-made one more time in the image of a father. Alfred hadn’t predicted Bruce would be a family man. He’d been proven wrong. It had been Bruce’s turn to pull. 

“Alfred!” and that was Dick’s voice, and Nightwing jogging towards him, smooth lines of black and blue. The mask had been pulled off—the medbay of the Watchtower was its most heavily secured sector, and at any rate, Superman himself was standing outside the door that led to the medbay’s hall—and his eyes were bright, lined with red, smudged with dark shadows underneath. Dried tear tracks cut down the boy’s face. Alfred’s heart twisted, and when Dick wrapped his arms around him, Alfred’s returning hug was earnest. 

“Dear boy,” Alfred murmured. “Come here.”

Dick’s grip tightened, and his face nestled in the crook of Alfred’s shoulder. So many times, Alfred had carried this boy to bed, when he’d been smaller; so many times he’d watched this boy be carried to bed. There was a shuddering breath beside Alfred’s ear. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t, I wasn’t—”

Alfred rubbed his hand up and down Dick’s spine. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Dick, my boy. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I should’ve been there,” Dick said. “I should’ve been there. I—how am I supposed to look at him, Al, when it’s—”

“Oh, hush,” Alfred said. He turned his head to the side and brushed a kiss against Dick’s temple. “You will look at him just the same as you always do, because you have done nothing wrong.”

Dick sniffed. His arms squeezed Alfred tightly, just for a moment, and then he backed away, rubbing at his eyes. His cheeks were a furious red. “Yeah. Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to, you know.”

Decades of practiced composure kept Alfred’s back stiff, kept his hands steady, kept his voice warm. If there was any part of him, however small, that wanted to riot against the rigidity, that wanted to break down and scream at the world for turning so brutally forward, it was squashed thoroughly. There would be a time, in private, in only the company of himself, that he could let himself have his moment, as Dick was now. But that time would have to wait. 

“It is quite alright,” Alfred said. 

Dick swallowed. His eyes watered and then he rocked back on his heels, tearing at his hair, and swore. “It’s just not—it’s not fair. It’s not. It’s just not. I’m sorry, Al, I really am, I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t believe for a second that he won’t live through this,” Alfred said. “I cannot promise it will be easy. But I can promise that it will be done.”

Dick’s mouth quirked upwards in a shaky smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess, that’s—yeah. You’re right.” 

Alfred reached out and patted his shoulder. “I make it a habit.”

Dick jerked his head to a room down the hall. “He’s in there. He’s knocked out, Leslie said he wouldn’t be awake for a while. We can’t move him yet.”

Dick had said as much, when he’d called;  _ it’s, uh, it’s Bruce’s—right leg, it’s gone from below the knee. He just got out of surgery, and I know—I know I should’ve called you earlier, I just, I couldn’t. I wanted to make sure… well. I’ll see you soon. _

“You,” Alfred said, “take a break. Sit here, go stand with Mr. Kent, get off this blasted Tower—choose one. I daresay you need a moment to get your bearings. I will sit with Master Bruce.”

Dck stilled. “I don’t want to leave him,” he said, cautiously. 

“I understand. I do not recall asking, either,” Alfred said, gently. 

Dick’s eyes skittered across the ground, and his mouth twisted angrily, but he jerked his chin in a nod. “Okay. Okay. I’ll… call me if anything happens, alright? And call me when he wakes up. I’ll contact everyone.”

Alfred nodded. “Thank you, dear boy. I think, I—I want to be with him.”

Alfred’s heart gave a jolt in its chest; he hadn’t intended to voice that particular thought. It seemed Dick knew that, too, because his eyes softened and he stood straighter to give Alfred a kiss on the cheek, and then leaned back on his heels, replacing the mask on his face. 

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Dick said. 

He turned to leave. Alfred grabbed his wrist, and Dick turned to look at him curiously, and Alfred said, “He is proud of you.”

Impossible to know precisely what Dick was feeling, beneath his mask, but Alfred could hazard a guess; starstruck eyes, brows slightly lifted, eyes still a tad overly shiny. “Yeah?”

“He is not the only one,” Alfred said. “I was nervous, when he first brought you home. The boy—the man I had known then, you must understand, was different than the man you would come to know. You gave back to him. You changed him utterly. Forgive me if what I say is unkind, but as horrific as the circumstances were, I am so very glad that you came into our lives. You have been a blessing. Do not ever believe this incident was your fault. It would be rather crushing, for Master Bruce, to know you thought that.”

Dick was perfectly motionless for a moment, before he said, in a choked voice, “Okay. I’ll… work on it. Thank you.”

Alfred squeezed his wrist, and let him go, and watched him leave. He stood there a moment after Dick had gone, staring at the door, accustoming himself to the silence. He worked best in silence.

Leslie was sitting in the chair beside Bruce, and she rose the second Alfred opened the door. She smoothed down her white coat, and said, “I suppose he’s best left to you, now.”

Alfred smiled thinly. “Yes, quite so, Dr. Thompkins,” he said. 

There was a moment of tension, of awkwardness, where there was something Leslie clearly wanted to say. She swallowed audibly, and nothing followed. She brushed past Alfred and left the room without another word, the silent  _ call me if you need me _ stretching between them as it always did, a line of connection that cut like razor wire.  _ Is it love that you walked away, _ he thought, viciously,  _ is it love to love someone and then leave them? _

Alfred settled in the chair she’d vacated. Bruce’s profile was angular as always, the familiar jut in his nose where it’d been broken frequently almost comforting; the shadows of the dark room seemed to carve thick, ominous lines into his face. 

“You haven’t feigned sleep to avoid conversation since high school,” Alfred said. 

One eye flicked open and narrowed. “I,” he said, “am… simply enjoying my epidural.”

“She gave you an epidural?”

“I’d had… my leg blown off,” Bruce said, idly, like he were noticing the weather. “I deserved it.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Alfred said. “What do you remember?”

“Pain,” Bruce said. “Dick—shouting. For Clark.”

Alfred’s hand found Bruce’s, and wrapped around it. “How do you feel now?”

“Not looking forward… to when this will hurt more.”

Alfred’s thumb brushed Bruce’s knuckles, brushed over the built-up scar tissue there. “For that matter,” he said, “neither am I.”

Bruce looked away, looked at the ceiling. “You know. I never thought—never thought this would be me. All that time. All those injuries. Even after Bane, I didn’t—imagine this.”

_ I won’t say the possibility didn’t occur to me, _ Alfred thought, but he kept a leash on it; it occurred to him because Alfred had watched a man lose a leg, once, during his service. The nightmares he’d had over the years, Bruce’s face superimposed over that of his—the nightmares he’d had over the years. 

“I know,” was all Alfred said. It was all he could say, all he had left of himself as the reality wrung words out of him. 

“I would like to be angry,” Bruce said, softly. “But it’s just funny.”

Alfred swallowed. “Is it.”

“Yes. Hilarious.” Bruce’s voice turned into a rasping rattle. “I would rather lose the leg over another child.”

Alfred’s heart slammed against his ribcage, once, twice, a third time; _ because life has given you no choice to see a world beyond loss, because life has been so eminently cruel to you, you chose this, dear God why did you choose this. _ Alfred took a moment to stare at his lap and take even, slow breaths. 

“I don’t want to do this, Al,” Bruce murmured.

“We have a pattern, you and I,” Alfred said. “We migrate regularly, as caribou do. Back and forth, and back and forth. Push and pull. When you are unable to do it yourself any longer, I will push you forward. I always have. I always will. As much as you don’t want to forge ahead, you must, but you will at least not be alone.”

Bruce turned his head to look at Alfred. His eyes were glassy. “The best you have,” he said, “was a caribou analogy?”

Alfred stood and swatted his head. “Oh, hush. It’s been a trying day. I’d like to see you, Master Bruce, you impeccable conversationalist, do better.”

“Hn,” Bruce grunted.

Alfred stood at the head of the cot, carding his fingers through Bruce’s hair. Bruce leaned gratefully into the touch—Bruce had always done that, even when he was a tiny lad, that quiet but pleased movement closer. It was rightfully endearing. 

“You’ll be alright,” Alfred said. “I can promise it.”

“You can’t promise anything.”

Alfred hummed. “I can. Because I know you. Your endurance is your most remarkable skill.”

Bruce snorted. “I thought that was my… conversationalist aspects.”

Alfred flicked him on the ear. “Do not be an idiot child to avoid understanding the words I am saying. I saw through that act when you were fourteen, and I see through it now.”

  
Bruce grunted, but otherwise didn’t respond. So Alfred sat with him, and made sure he communicated his love in every touch, made sure to say  _ I am not leaving you _ by pressing a kiss to Bruce’s forehead; and when Bruce cried, silently, tears slipping down his cheeks, Alfred held him, made sure to say _ you are not alone.  _

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it! I have........ so much more writing to do. _cries_


End file.
